


One More Chance XVII

by DancingHare



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingHare/pseuds/DancingHare
Summary: Vajarra loses her way.





	One More Chance XVII

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published July 28, 2008

Vajarra watched the coin as it tumbled into the well’s depths, the light glinting on the silver and disappearing into the dark water. She reached into her pouch for another, but found it empty. That didn’t surprise her, she had been here most of the morning, and whomever dwelled in the bottom of that well was several gold pieces richer by now. She looked back to the bench glumly, not that she really expected him to appear, but hope insisted that she look again. Because he could have changed his mind, couldn’t he? Maybe when he reached the home they used to share, he would be overcome with loneliness and beg her to forgive him.

Vajarra didn’t really believe any of these things would happen, but she permitted her imagination to pursue them. It helped to pass the time and it helped to keep the tears back — most of the time. She settled on the smooth marble bench with a sigh, hooking her tiny hooves under her. It was easy to picture him there, sitting as they had so many times in the past. He would be wearing his leather breeches, and his white linen shirt, and he would have that dirty old hat perched on his head, his long ears pointing out from the holes in the top. She could even see the little leaves and things in his hair, that she had to resist picking out. He wasn’t fussy like she was, he didn’t care if his hair was mussed or there was dirt on his boots.

She could still remember the very first time she saw him. He was sitting at the base of the tree in front of the auction house, nearly obscured by the bushes there. He had been wearing armor that was dyed green, so no one noticed him. Vajarra had though, she had asked him why he was hiding. Even though she got the feeling that he was irritated by her questions, he explained that he was watching over the tree, that he was a druid who guarded the wilds. They never planned it, but they met by the tree again, and he patiently answered all of her questions. She remembered asking him to go to the Darkmoon Faire, how he drank some of the ale and sat close to her, and she wishing that he would kiss her, and feeling surprised by the wish. He didn’t though, he didn’t seem to notice her at all, not in that way. Because she wasn’t an elf, maybe, but it didn’t matter to her.

She remembered the night in the tavern in Shattrath, when she couldn’t bear to keep it a secret any longer, and she kissed his cheek and told him that she wanted to be his. He hadn’t known, he said, and she thought she couldn’t have been much more obvious about it, but was delighted that he felt the same way. They went one evening to Darkshore, and he showed her the forest where he had grown up. She stayed with him, beneath the fragrant boughs of an ancient pine, while the stars winked overhead. In the forest outside of Terrokar, he built a little home for them, born from the willing wood of a living tree.

Her sister didn’t approve. She said that kind of thing was beneath Vajarra. Her uncle Jovaar approved even less, and he said that no good would come of it. She remembered how she’d argued in Varul’s defense, saying that he would never abandon her like that. It made her feel foolish now, to see that her uncle had been right all along. He’d only been trying to protect her, but at the time she’d been infuriated with him. Certainly she couldn’t go to him for advice now, nor to Vassanta, who was too busy with her own latest interest.

It was so unfair! How was she supposed to know that he hadn’t died? He didn’t write to her, or leave a note, or tell anyone where he was going. The days stretched into weeks and then into months, and Vajarra was faced with two harsh truths: either Varul was dead, or he was alive and didn’t want her to know where he was. She couldn’t take care of herself, she needed someone to look after her. Aziron, the stoic warrior, offered — very politely, too — and she had accepted. Aziron treated her well enough, but battle was his only real love, and he was away for days at a time, Vajarra tending the little house in Telaar on her own. She thought of Varul often on those quiet nights, wondering where he was, what had become of him.

So when he had come back, Vajarra was delighted, but he’d changed. He was angry and remote, and he hadn’t seemed to miss her at all. And when she told him the truth, that she had turned to another in his absence, he was furious. It didn’t matter, all of her pleading and apologies could not budge him, and he fled to the woods. It was only last night that she’d seen him again, at last, and she’d gone to him, her heart full of hope. They’d talked here, on the benches in front of the well, and he told her that he didn’t love her any longer. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t vengeful, he didn’t feel anything at all, but that was somehow worse. She wanted to kiss him, to touch him, in hopes that it might make him pause, but she didn’t dare risk him refusing.

The tears came after he had left, unable to keep them back any longer. She didn’t want anyone to see her, but fortunately the courtyard was empty. What was she supposed to do without him? “Find someone else,” was what he had said, and she could hear the bitterness in his voice. The trouble is, there wasn’t anyone like him.

She wished there was someone who understood, who could tell her what to do. Not Vassanta, and certainly not her uncle. She thought of Istahn, and immediately felt ashamed for it. He was her friend, there was no more between them than that, she assured herself. But he would listen, nodding in that patient way of his while he stroked her hand. He’d make her some tea and tell her what to do and everything would be all right. She wished that she hadn’t sent him away, or rather that Vassanta hadn’t forced it to happen. Maybe he would write to her soon, on fancy paper with his neat handwriting and sealed with wax with his signet ring. For now though, the comforting light of the naaru would have to be enough.


End file.
